Demagogue and the Daisy Girl
by Zaedah
Summary: Once luck has been kicked, it never returns willingly.
1. The Puppy of Luck

_Zaedah has returned from her desperately needed vacation with a case story for my faithful readers. I present chapter one for your consideration, with a promise to catch up on all the Fringy stories of my favorite fanficcers that I've missed while away. _

_Dedicated to Oreo, my momma's cat who passed away today. Y'all know how much the Crazy Ol' Cat Lady loves her felines._

* * *

**Demagogue and the Daisy Girl**

Once luck has been kicked, it never returns willingly. Like a mistreated puppy, good fortune huddles in a corner, glaring at its abuser until it grows big enough to bite back. And so began Peter Bishop's day. Because he'd been picking a random path between landmines, it was natural that he'd slip and set one off. And the morning saw the progress toward reconciliation with his father blown to bits.

Because he couldn't find a moon pie.

One of many odd requests Walter Bishop had made since tasting the fresh air of civilization, the marshmallow concoction was not among the items Peter brought back from the store. And the enraged scientist swore no work would be done should a moon pie not materialize before him. That Walter preferred his treat to come from the original factory which, being in Chattanooga Tennessee, made a walk from Boston impossible, didn't help. But it was Walter's dramatics that resurrected his son's teenaged angst. When the fickle lock on Peter's mouth came unhinged, several rather vulgar points made it past his lips before his feet had the good sense to carry him from the lab. Which did nothing to slake the old man's craving.

The puppy of luck was getting fiercer by the day.

**.......**

Beneath crisp sheets in the makeshift morgue, six bodies lay before Olivia's scrutiny. Through the closed door she'd heard muted shouting in the lab but found it less interesting than the mystery of these deaths. Walter was right; aside from being terribly dead, they were perfectly healthy. The thin trail of dried blood running down their ears suggested some kind of auditory disturbance. Based on Walter's cursory probing this morning, they'd established that no wounds, disease or specific organ failure were present. Other than the blood drippings, which Astrid was testing, there was nothing wrong with these corpses.

Commonalities were few but Olivia considered them significant. Charlie had noted that the victims represented different portions of the city's minorities in working class jobs; two were high school students, two were homeless, one was a trash collector and the last a bike messenger. And Peter pointed to their similar footwear, all wearing construction or hiking boots.

"What are we missing?" She asked victim number four.

"Nothing in the blood, apparently." Astrid strolled past the beds and handed Olivia her results. "A little marijuana for one of the students and chemo drugs showing in the municipal worker, but nothing else."

Tying her hair back in a hasty ponytail, Olivia rose from her stool and paced the room's perimeter. Counting the bodies as though one might have departed, she turned back to Astrid.

"Charlie called and said none were related, friends or even lived in the same part of town. Even the students went to different schools. But they all came together in the same field and collapsed for no earthly reason."

"Makes perfect sense," Peter chimed in from the doorway. "We haven't been on good terms with the earthly lately."

The blond agent's smile was fleeting but the light in her eyes held fast. "Are you done yelling at your father?"

"For the moment." Pushing off the frame, the younger Bishop entered the room, ignoring the cadavers. "Until he demands another dessert requiring a miracle."

Astrid collected fresh tissue samples and rushed out of the morgue. Moments happened between those two when left alone, she knew, and enjoyed promoting the fact. Meanwhile, the bodies grew deader under their gaze and Olivia stepped back to reclaim her stool.

"We need more information. Where they started their day, where they were going, why they stopped at that field."

Never one to sit when activity beckoned, Peter moved toward the door. "Well, Walter would remind us that corn has ears, so let's see if they heard anything."

**.......**

Forty miles north of Boston, neat rows waved to the black SUV in the dying summer breeze. Fall was quickly approaching and the tall stalks would soon be leveled. The crime scene tape, tied to the only upright things available, swayed along with the stalks. But the crime scene's immediate area was barren, trampled stalks and leaves browning under the sun. The bodies had been found by a boy cutting through the field to get home from baseball practice. His glove, dropped in his fright, remained on the ground next to an almost square hole. As Peter and Olivia searched, similar holes were found to form, when connected, a large rectangle.

"These were made by two-by-fours," Peter said while his fingers dug around in one of the holes. "Maybe a selling stand or a platform?"

The wind kicked up, threatening to pull Olivia's hair from the black elastic. Ignoring the disarray being produced, she turned a slow counterclockwise, taking in the silos in the distance, the sloppy V of geese overhead and the lack of traffic.

"Platform for what? You couldn't have seen it from the road."

Rising, Peter performed an opposing circle of his own, with an eye toward a different purpose. "Unless the point wasn't to be seen. Probably selling something stronger than vegetables."

"Customers would have to know it was here. And likely be local." Flipping open her cell phone, Dunham dialed Charlie's number. "It's me. Have your men set up a canvas of the area near the scene. Ask if anyone knew about drugs or guns being sold in the field."

Returning her attention to the flattened earth, Olivia found her companion hunched down over a crumpled paper. Using a stick, Peter turned the page over and then motioned for her to join him. Kneeling down, they read a homemade flier of cheap paper and faded ink.

"Come ye, Brother Death, to those who perpetuate Uncle Sin's purposes." Peter read the header aloud, though most of the actual text was obscured by the crinkles. What print still legible was a harsh, raving discourse on the 'defective' people and the author's new revelation.

"Could be some sort of preacher trying to gain a following." Olivia rose on protesting legs to step away from the vile paper. "Or maybe he already has."

"Maybe the five victims were defective?"

"Or maybe his religion involves ritual suicide." Dialing Charlie again, Olivia headed back to the SUV. "Charlie, also ask if anyone has family members suspected of joining a cult."

"Maybe they kicked the puppy too," Peter mused to the audience of stalks.

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**_Chapter 2 shall be forthcoming. Thoughts are encouraged!_**


	2. A Leaf Turning Early

_For Trippy, Piraty, Blackie and WjO. Is this update fast enough for ya?_

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**Demagogue and the Daisy Girl**

**Chapter Two**

A Rockwell inspired, tree-lined street of untainted Americana greeted the agent and the consultant, the sight killing their conversation on hate propaganda and curious corpses. The sheer volume of plush greenery spoke of a summer that had made even the identical trees happy. Houses in neat rows bore the muted pastels of an old seaside town and each front window showed a variance on a red, white and blue theme. Damn near colonial, Olivia had muttered while the cynic beside her voiced an opinion of fakeness. No one really liked so much unity, such disregard for the principle of individuality.

On their way to a man that Charlie had interviewed earlier, Peter stopped under the shade of a tree and looked up. In her hurry to pursue justice, Olivia fought to scold the man whose expression, in this moment, had shifted to awe at whatever he was viewing. So much like his father.

"A single leaf turning early," he explained with the beginnings of a smile. "Maybe originality isn't dead here."

"But other things are, so…" Olivia gestured a thin hand to the road. "Shall we?"

Abe Winston's house, while carrying the apparently requisite patriotic theme, did so with refreshing subtlety. A construction belt hung from a horse head coat rack and a collection of old tools lined a wide chair rail. The visitors were handed store-bought lemonade and homemade scones and Mr. Winston cleared his throat four times before appearing ready to answer questions.

"Sir, you told Agent Francis that your sister had joined a new preacher's congregation?"

The middle-aged carpenter and his curly, graying mop of hair, nodded vigorously enough to pinch a nerve. "Went off with some yahoo who said God told him the names of those being damned. And she just had to know if she was one of'um."

"And was she?" Peter asked after recovering from a sip of biting liquid.

"Tell you something, she came home after the first meeting just about dancing. So I guess not. I'd have been happy for her to get some direction, but not from this nut."

Olivia put her untouched glass on a flag coaster and placed her elbows on her knees. Studying the man just enough to elicit the slightest squirm, she then leaned back like an invited friend.

"Where were these meetings held?"

"Never saw, myself. But I heard from Mrs. McCray that her son followed that quack, too. Said he came home looking like he sat in dirt and corn husks."

Standing, Winston shuffled to a mantle overhanging an electric fireplace, took down a small, silver-plate frame and handed it to Peter. The woman, still on the fair end of thirty, looked to have kicked the luck puppy a few times herself. Hunched by the burden of mistakes, there was a sallow pallor that suggested she'd rarely been on the right side of a fight.

Taking back the photo, Winston shook his head at the image before returning the frame to its place. Outside, a train rumbled across tracks while inside, a myna bird hummed in response.

"Looks as beat as the Confederates at Yorktown, huh? But last time I saw her, it was like a different person snuck into her skin, smiling like a fool."

"As though this preacher had helped her in some way?" Standing, Olivia pulled out her notebook. "Did she tell you his age or appearance?"

"She liked the older set, if you know what I mean. I take it he was at least fifty. Probably decent looking, knowing her."

"Nothing else that might describe him?"

"Nope," Winston shoved his hands into his pockets. "Just said he was the pillar of righteousness or some such nonsense. Rather her be beat than duped, you know? Least one's close to the truth."

……**.**

The quality of liquid refreshment improved at Mrs. McCray's home, where a delicious punch made starting the interview difficult. It was, the ninety year old informed them, a combination of orange sherbet and 7-Up with a few maraschino cherries thrown in. In childlike fashion, Peter dug the ladle through the bottom of the punch bowl to nab as many cherries as possible. The resemblance to his father struck Dunham for the second time in as many hours, but she thought better of declaring it.

The Americana color scheme was overwhelming in the small space; banners, rugs and upholstery all succumbing to what Mrs. McCray described as the linchpin in the town's charter. The two guests were seated on flag draped chairs while the senior citizen covered herself in a star spangled throw despite the day's warmth.

"Well, my youngest boy started telling me about this minister. Much as I didn't like what I was hearing, I figured it was a better time waster than what Daniel had been doing."

"He was in trouble before?" Peter inquired, having asked all the questions to this point. The old woman seemed taken by him and Olivia was not above using that.

"Running around, mostly. Silly things he shoulda grown out of." A delicate slurp of her punch revived Mrs. McCray's fading voice. "This fella gave him a purpose, seemed like."

Reaching across the table for the ladle, Peter refilled her glass, earning a smile wrapped around ill-fitting dentures. "And what did Daniel tell you that you didn't like?"

"Oh, I liked that he was finally going to church like I always hoped. That the man said Daniel could live up to his biblical namesake. But the messages he was bringing home were… disturbing. Always pointing out the bad rather than focusing on the good."

There was an antique sideboard in the living room, photos scattered on the worn surface. Taking a frame of two boys fishing from among the cobwebs, Olivia brought it to the woman, asking if these were her children.

"The two that lived, sure. The oldest went to Vietnam instead of doing that disco and having babies. Never found his body in those camps." A finger bent by arthritis pointed to the shorter boy, his legs yellowed with the paper's age. "That's Daniel with his other brother, James. Danny had a live fish behind his back there and put in down Jimmy's shorts after I snapped this picture."

"And do you know where Daniel is now?" Cocking his head to get her attention, Peter asked again, "Where is he?"

Shaking hands rose from her lap, fussing with the hair she'd pinned into a proper bun. The stall tactic lasted a full minute before she came to a decision.

"Some big revival the other night. Never came home, just like a bunch of others in town. I heard a rumor that those dead strangers little Matthew found were also part of it." Mrs. McCray set the frame down on the coffee table and pointed at Peter. "You find him for me. I know you can."

With a trembling rise on unsteady, thin legs, the woman smoothed her house dress and then snatched a piece of orange paper from a side table. Peter recognized the rhetoric, flipped the page over and then handed it to Olivia. On the back, someone had written the location of the flattened field and a phone number in thick pencil.

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**Thank you for taking this little journey with me.** **More to follow...**


	3. The Easybake Oven

_Hopefully, you're not tired of this adventure already. Thanks so much for your kind return visit as the story moves forward..._

_

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_**Demagogue and the Daisy Girl**

**Chapter Three**

A veteran agent waited in the air conditioned, unmarked sedan as his companion trotted through neat rows of future ethanol and cattle feed. The temperature soared against the weatherman's prediction and even the cows in the adjoining pasture chewed slower. This wasn't his idea of an assignment; chauffeuring a rookie and babysitting corn. Still, the AC worked, the food was free and as a sign of decent luck, the stalks didn't bother making a break for it.

Reaching the compacted crime scene, the young agent tore the yellow tape from the stalks, rolling the length into a hasty ball. As his orders were to return the scene to its original condition, he picked up the six numbered tags identifying the bodies and bagged even the litter that blew in after the victims had been removed. Eager to escape the Easybake Oven of the early morning humidity, the agent swiftly completed his tasks and rushed back to the government-issue car.

There was an odd tingle vibrating in his spine when he yanked open the car door, but as the artificially cool air kissed his face, it was dismissed. The prospect that someone was watching the field was welcomed as the perpetrator might take their clean-up as a sign that interest had been lost in the site. When they felt secure, many criminals return to their last scene, the case's lead agent reminded them during her limited briefing. The rookie's activity was a show for the criminal's benefit and he hoped they appreciated the new sweat stains on his crisp shirt. Pulling back onto the road, the sedan headed to a nearby grain store where surveillance would commence on the field.

And a man, climbing quietly down from a deer stand with satisfaction, strode away from the place of his recent triumph.

……**.**

After concluding an arduous oversight committee meeting, where again he fought for a stay of execution on his special unit, Broyles made his way to the one-way mirror. This was the closest he'd see today of a break from the ever-pressing workload. For several minutes he lingered on the girl fidgeting in the interrogation room. Patiently waiting for his lead agent to arrive, Phillip took in Megan Asher's compulsive gum smacking and knuckle cracking, the rocking and constant glances behind her. It was the distress of a scared sixteen year old, an honor roll student with a spotless record whose story to the local police brought her to this room.

Olivia's pace was brisk through the outer office. When she reached the interrogation wing, she nodded to her superior, who looked not at all surprised that Peter Bishop was trailing behind her. The man, who had likely been on the other side of an interrogation room a time or two, chewed gently on a cherry stem. The perceptive agent was well aware of the punch stain parking on her jacket but as the air conditioning was set to 'Alaska,' she opted to simply drape an arm across her mid section. Broyles handed her a folder and then acknowledged Dr. Bishop's son with a nod.

"Are we ready?" Dunham asked her civilian partner as she opened the door.

Once clear of the doorway, Peter took a guarded position to Olivia's left while she claimed the chair opposite the possible witness. Megan's pretty face, with no make-up or chemical hair colors, was the all-American ideal. Until the rest of the image was considered: black baggy clothing, thick chain necklace and multiple piercings.

"My name's Olivia. I was hoping you could tell me what happened at the bus stop."

Megan looked up at the adults and swallowed her gum. "Um, I was just waiting for the bus and I felt someone grab me from behind." Megan peered over her shoulder as though it might reoccur.

In a motherly turn, Olivia invoked a softer gaze while removing her badge and jacket. Then she yanked her hair from its binding, letting it fall. The teen watched every motion, finding something soothing in the altered appearance.

"How did you get away, Megan?" Olivia asked.

"My dad." Her lips arched upward a fraction as she played with the skull on her wristband. "He told me that a guy has… you know, parts that don't like to be kicked."

Hearing the soft throat clearing behind her, Olivia's lips mimicked Megan's. "What did you do?"

"I pulled my foot up as hard as I could and the person that had me did this dolphin wail. And that kinda told me it wasn't a man."

"A woman tried to take you?" Peter chimed in, stepping closer and opening the folder. The photo he produced showed Abe Winston's missing sister. "This woman?"

Megan grasped the picture, fingering the corners and turning it from one side to the other. "No." Then she taped a chipped black nail on Martha Winston's face. "But she was in the van that the other woman ran to after I got away."

Tucking the photo back into the folder, Olivia threw a quick glance behind her. "And the blue flier fell out of the van when she opened the door?" Megan nodded. "Did the woman say anything?"

"Well, the windows were rolled down, so I heard one of them say that, um… Benjamin would be disappointed." The last four words came with air quotes.

When anxious parents arrived, Olivia dismissed the girl into their care and watched them steer past the row of desks toward the lobby. The agent nearest Olivia was given the task of running the artist's sketch of the unknown assailant and tracking down the van Megan detailed.

Shrugging off her mother's sheltering arm from her shoulder, Megan sprinted back to the blond agent and, panting, told her one more thing.

"I forgot about the little girl..."

……**.**

The van was described as a burgundy passenger model with white pinstripes and tinted windows. Walter, hearing this, decried the ending of the van art era. To Astrid's amusement, he detailed every style he'd ever seen, from wizards and witches to flames and flowers. Of course, he preferred the Darth Vader motif one of his colleagues possessed, which led to a sad tale of the professor's unfortunate death by grain harvester. Invariably, this brought Walter's whiffle ball mind back the case. He instructed Asthma to remind him to inquire if that field had any farm equipment that he could drive.

Astrid filed that request under 'Never' and was hardly surprised that it wasn't mentioned when Peter and Olivia returned. Instead, Walter explained that the tissue samples held nothing unusual, nor did his retinal burn tests that were meant to show the last image the dead had seen.

Reviewing the recorded impressions, Peter rubbed his whiskered chin. "Looks like the inside of their eyelids. If someone babbled less, I might actually see the same view."

"Maybe," Olivia peered at the monitor over his shoulder, "they were asleep when they died."

"Lucky them," Astrid said. "But how often do you sleep in a field with strangers?"

"Perhaps it was a six-some." Chuckling, Walter stridently sucked the remnants of his milkshake, getting more air than liquid.

Peter's groan was becoming a familiar sound in the lab and it was unleashed to no one's attention. "Please, I beg you, don't talk like that."

Moving to the computer, Olivia began a search of suspected cult leaders, narrowing the list to Benjamins. The coffee Astrid provided use for her otherwise drumming fingers. Watching the progress bar was one of her greatest annoyances. When no positive results were returned, Olivia widened her search to kidnappers with that name. The mug shot of a now fifty-five year old man caught her eye. Reynold Tanzer. Formerly handsome, son of a pastor, victims included female toddlers and known to use an alias.

Benjamin Woods.

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_**Next chapter arriving as fast as Zaedah's little fingers can type. Stayed tuned!**_


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